


The Revenant

by kauzchen



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Dark, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Fallout Kink Meme, Mental Instability, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Non-violent Rape/Non-con Elements, Obsession, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 19:38:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5387801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kauzchen/pseuds/kauzchen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hasn't always been so sure, but he knows now. He knows that they both belong together, just as they both belong to a world before the bombs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Revenant

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNING:** This story contains (nonviolent) non-con/rape, possibly dubcon, as well as themes of stalking, obsession, and some heavy mental anguish. Please be advised and read at your own caution.
> 
> Fallout kmeme fill. Apologies to the requester that I couldn't strictly keep this at your dubcon preference, but you mentioned that noncon was okay, and that's just how this turned out. Original here: http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/6099.html?view=16387795#t16387795

This is how ghouls go feral, he reflects.

His fingers—ruined fingers, skin of his knuckles stretched white-tight over bone—dig into his own thighs. He watches her move. Watches her hum. Watches her sit contentedly, quietly, alone in her home and away from her friends. _Their_ friends, some part of his mind, buried deep beneath the thunderstorm of his thoughts, supplies. He ignores it.

He still remembers how she looked that day, her husband standing behind her with a curious expression. He still remembers how her lips twisted into a polite smile when she opened her door. He remembers that she’d been wearing a powder-blue blouse and a face full of makeup, eyes lined dark and lips the color of pomegranate.

He remembers what it felt like to be human.

She slides off her armor, warm in the safety of her new home in Sanctuary—a home that is not her old home but bigger, not dilapidated, far away from the memories of that time. But the décor is much the same. He’s stalked through the halls of both homes enough times to know. He presses closer to the wooden wall, eyes straining to gain focus through the thin gaps between wooden planks, heart pounding wildly against the cage of his ribs, sweat dripping a cool line from his left temple to the collar of his dirty tan trenchcoat.

He remembers his smooth skin, with two faint scars on both knees from falling off his bicycle at age ten and fourteen, respectively. He remembers his hair, coarse-but-loose on the best of days and a wiry mess otherwise. He remembers being normal, with normal goals, a normal life, a normal existence.

She unzips her vault suit to reveal a thin set of underclothes. Her skin is radiant in the dim light of a lantern. Smooth, almost as smooth as it had been back then. He swallows hard.

She is a living testament to these memories. She is all that reminds him that he was once _real._ That his life was once _real._ That a time existed before he was a ghoul, before the world was fire, before his hands shook and his legs quaked at the sight of some woman he hardly knew.

She climbs into her bed and extinguishes the lantern.

Tonight is the night.

He pulls himself away—regretfully, hesitantly—from her wall and retreats into the dark, back behind the tall shrubbery that hides his nightly excursion. He traces steps back to his home, the home that was once _hers,_ back to where his meager bed and belongings lay. If she found it odd that he’d claimed her old home as his own, she had yet to bring it up to him. Sometimes he wishes she would, if only so that she would speak to him. He takes any excuse he can to hear her voice, to be around her.

She thinks him pathetic. Bumbling, even. Incapable? Maybe.

He wasn’t always like this.

Before they’d met in Goodneighbour’s Memory Den, he’d been a drifting ghoul much like any other. He remembered his old life, sure, but it did not rule him—it did not _dictate_ his life as it did now. He’d had 200 years to overcome his misgivings about fairness and justice. He’d considered himself _lucky,_ in fact, yes, _lucky_ to be a ghoul. _Lucky_ to have been given the option of life rather than a quick death bathed in flame or a slow death rotting from the inside. He was and is damaged, always, forever, eyes black as oil and skin torn to tatters. But he _lived_ and for a very long time—about 200 years, to be precise—that was enough.

He stops once he’s reached his home, hands balled into fists. He stares into his near-empty bedroom, his small duffel bag of supplies sat at the foot of his bed.

He’d recognized her instantly. Her face had been among the last he’d seen before the bombs fell. It was etched into his brain, a permanent and unhappy reminder of all the people who had perished, who had been eradicated when he had not. Of all the things that had been left behind.

But she was alive. And she’d remembered him.

It had not taken long for him to become like this.

She’d offered him a home in her home—in _Sanctuary,_ where he thought he’d never return—and he’d almost refused. He’d almost left her behind, like he’d left behind all the others so many years ago, and continued with his life. He should have, he thinks, he laments. He should have thanked her politely and been on his way. But instead he stayed.

And look what she had wrought. Look what she had brought upon herself.

He picks up the bag and slings it over his shoulder, then leaves, staying to the darkest corners of Sanctuary.

She was an angel. She was so forgiving, so accepting, so _open._ She checked on him frequently, each time she returned to her homestead from this or that mission. And he waited patiently for her to return to him, faithful and yearning, like a dog waiting on the foyer’s cold tile for its master to walk in. And each time she brought him something. A gift. An old book she recognized from their time. A piece of jewelry that had survived. A set of crayons, missing some and in disrepair but still useable. Things untouched by time, as she is, but marred and filthy by hardship, like he is. “This is us,” he imagined her saying to him, “these things are us. These are from our time. Look how much we are like them.”

Nobody else is like them. Nobody else understands. Nobody here at Sanctuary, almost nobody else alive today, knows what he world was like before the bombs. Before the war.

She needs him.

He hides his duffel bag in the brahmins’ feed tub. The beasts lift their heads from the ground to stare at him curiously and then return to slumber.

He needs her.

He unzips the bag and pulls out just three items: a length of rope, a knife, and a roll of industrial adhesive tape. He hides them in the billowing folds of his coat. He walks on.

They need each other.

He is so sure of it. It warms him at night, when he is cold and alone in his bed. It helps him live through each day bereft of her presence. They knew each other in a different life, if briefly, and she’d found him again in this one. They are fated. They are meant to be. And he is a ghoul, yes, and she is a smoothskin, oh, _yes,_ skin as smooth as a baby’s, skin like moonlight under the light of the stars, skin that taunts him in his darkest hours, that beckons him, that _pleads_ with him to be touched, but…

Ahead of him, sitting at some patio furniture and smoking cigarettes with Nick Valentine, is Hancock.

But…

He approaches the two of them slowly. Hancock notices his presence first, eyes as black, black like his, flicking to his form immediately.

But she never seemed to mind ghouls.

Nick notices less than a second afterward. Neither are threatened by him. They should not be. He will not hurt them. He will not hurt anyone. Not intentionally.

Nick is the first to speak to him. He smiles charmingly and gestures to an open chair at the table, words of welcome accompanying the action. His eyes are blinding golden halos in the night, judging him without even knowing. Neither of them know. Nobody knows the horrors he sees, the misery he feels.

He smokes with them. They talk among themselves at first, about the settlement, about Goodneighbour, about Diamond City, and he watches them. He sees metal joints flex and wires go tight and then loose again as Nick speaks. The synth will not be anywhere near him or his plans tonight, he thinks, and he is thankful for this. He looks at Hancock, his thin wrists, his lean muscles, his gaunt face. He looks at the ghoul’s left boot, where he knows a combat knife, sharpened to perfection, is hidden. He wonders how fast he will need to be—

Hancock is staring at him. Knowing. Meeting him gaze-for-gaze.

He looks on edge, expression drawn tight under his tricorne hat in a way that only he, as a fellow ghoul, can recognize. He _knows._

“You got a name?” Hancock asks around his cigarette.

He doesn’t think he can remember. Of all the things he remembers, all the things burned so feverishly into his mind, his skin, his soul, his name has never seemed important. He doesn’t even remember the last time anyone has asked. Not even her. “It’s,” he begins, voice a growl to match that of Hancock’s, but much more nervous, much more hesitant, “Paul.” Is that his name? He doesn’t know. But it’s a name, and any name is as good as any other one.

Hancock does not look convinced. He looks at him for a long time before taking another drag. “Paul, huh?” he asks, leaning back in his chair, relaxing, looking away from him, _finally._

“Maybe,” he answers truthfully. “It’s hard to remember.” Another truth.

“Damn shame,” Hancock replies, and there is honesty in his voice. There is a hint of sadness as well. “We get a lot of people like that in Goodneighbour. A lot of ghouls.”

“I—I’m from Goodneighbour!” he says, excitement coloring his tone. “Or, I lived there last, anyway.”

Something lights up in Hancock eyes as he exhales, smoke drifting lazily up into the night. “Yeah?” he asks, a small smile curling his lips. “Hope she treated you well.”

Better than some places and worse than others, he thinks, but says “I felt at home,” instead. Hancock’s smile widens. He looks the part of a proud father. He takes another drag, bashfully.

“Used to see these kinds of cases at the agency,” Nick says, nodding to him. “People losing their names, their identities. They all suspected the Institute. Tried my best, but I couldn’t always find the information they needed.” The synth’s eyes rove over him, down to the toes of his shoes and up to the tip of his hat. “What about you? What’s the story?”

Something, some awful knot of indecision, turns painfully in his gut. Hancock’s smile has faded into a complacent expression and he’s staring at him now, waiting, with interest, for an answer. No one has ever taken much interest in him. He is only here now, talking to these two, because of his plans.

They don’t care, he screams inside. Nobody has ever cared. Nobody but her. She is all that matters. She is _everything._

“200 years is a long time to remember something,” he answers, and the tremble is gone from his voice. “It was—it was never important. But Paul is good. For me. I think.” Paul _does_ stand out, makes his brain tickle, but he’s not sure why. Someone he knew, maybe; some random name that had flit across his clipboard for less than a second and stuck to the walls of his subconscious.

Hancock whistles low and Nick’s eyebrows raise. They ask him question after question for things he has no answers to, and he feels bad, almost, to let them down. They realize quickly that his life before the bombs is a blur, a fever dream, with only bits and pieces sticking out to him. They move on from the topic and onto others, and he sits in his own silence and listens. And thinks. He plans.

Nick will leave soon, he suspects, but Hancock will linger with him. Hancock feels some sort of kinship with him—they are both ghouls and they both lived in Goodneighbour. This will be his ticket in. Hancock has always been the key and now he has made it infinitely easier for him—for Paul? Is that really him? No, some part of him says, your name was longer, more complex, with more looping vowels and hard consonants, but he cannot ever hope to remember it now.

He puts his hand in his right pocket. He feels the knife, rope, and tape there. In his left pocket is a gun that he does not wish to use.

Nick leaves, as predicted, and he and Hancock are alone for some time. The other ghoul continues to smoke two more cigarettes, seemingly content with just staring up into the sky. It’s a cloudless night, unremarkable, but to him, to Paul, tonight is the most important night of his life.

“You know,” Paul says, keeping his tone light. Hancock does not turn to face him but he knows he is listening, “I—I haven’t had a hit of Jet since Goodneighbour.”

Hancock laughs, a hard, short sound. “Well, shit, stranger,” he says, slapping his lighter down on the patio table to begin digging into the pocket of his frock. “Why didn’t you say so sooner?” He produces an inhaler of Jet and grins, handing it to him. Of course he’d have the drugs on him, Paul thinks, eyeing the vial carefully. He takes it from Hancock and takes the smallest hit possible. He’s not sure if Hancock notices, but when he takes it back, his hit is long and deep.

He waits. Hancock will be high soon, and Paul will still be mostly sober, and that will be his only opening. Ghouls sober up fast.

Hancock doesn’t speak for several moments. “You the ‘quiet high’ type?” he asks.

He shrugs in response.

Hancock takes another hit. Good, Paul thinks. Take another. Hancock is comfortable, here in his almost-home, here surrounded by friends. He will let his guard down. “Everybody’s different,” Hancock says sagely. “Not Nora, though; she won’t touch this shit.” He chuckles after this.

His eyes narrow, but Hancock is not looking, so he does not notice. He knows she won’t. He knows she’s better than this. She’s not some filthy wastelander; she would never stoop so low. She is perfect. She is untouched. She is so beautiful it pains him. She haunts him. “That just means you gotta do double,” Paul says, sowing the seed and feeling no guilt. “Make up for her loss.”

“I like the way you think,” Hancock says, and takes another hit before handing it to his new friend.

By the time almost twenty minutes have passed, Hancock is slumped in his chair and is looking woozy. Paul still sits upright, hands jammed into his pockets, watching his companion sink further and further into his high. He made good on the suggestion to do double; later on, when the first Jet had been exhausted, he’d pulled out another and finished it off all on his own.

But ghouls sober up fast, Paul remembers, and so he sets to work.

“She’ll be worried about you,” Paul says, standing over Hancock’s bent body. His voice is dark, dark as his eyes, dark as his intentions, but Hancock is too out of his mind to notice.

“Yer right,” he slurs, head rolling back to stare up at him. His eyes are half-lidded. “Sheez always worryin’.” He struggles to stand, and Paul graciously, so helpfully, loops Hancock’s right arm over his shoulders. He’s light as a feather. “Whatta gal.”

Paul’s heart pounds. What a gal. Hancock’s gal.

 _His_ gal.

“I’ll get you to her,” he says, and he steers them toward the creek.

“Yer a good guy,” Hancock says, eyes closed.

Paul says nothing.

The water purifier roars in the distance, always on, always pumping. The sound of rushing water covers all else. It’s perfect, he thinks, as he sets Hancock gingerly on the ground next to the stone wall. The purifier looms over them, casting moonshadow over his deeds.

He retrieves his tools from his pockets, tape first. He stretches out a length of the tape and then cuts it with the knife. Hancock’s head is still rolling against the ground, still rolling in his high, still oblivious. It is only when Paul affixes the tape firmly over Hancock’s mouth that he opens his eyes.

They are wide, but they are clouded, and he looks both confused and betrayed.

“I—I won’t hurt you,” Paul says, quickly tilting Hancock onto his stomach and tying his hands firmly behind his back with the rope. He ties several knots, some throwback to a time when he was young and smooth and learning about ropes and their knots, and then starts on Hancock’s boots, tying them together and then removing the hidden knife within his left boot. He tosses it over the wall and into the creek. Hancock is saying some weak, muffled protests, and his arms and legs move, but he is high, and he is not in control, and Paul will not let anyone take this night from him. “She wouldn’t like it if I hurt you.”

 _“She?”_ Though Hancock’s mouth is taped, Paul can clearly hear the word. At this, he begins to struggle with renewed fervor, shouting closed-mouth insults and threats against the tape that Paul ignores.

He can feel something settle over his mind, something dark and hazy. His plans are working. Everything is falling into place. No more watching, no more waiting, no more frustration. She is waiting for him in her bed, soft and warm and _smooth,_ hardly clothed. Waiting, always, like he had done for so many years. Waiting for something, for someone.

Hancock takes advantage of this moment of weakness, of introspection, to twist around and plant two tied-together boots right into Paul’s face. He feels something in his jaw crack and flies backwards onto stone. He must move quickly, now. Ghouls sober up fast.

Hancock is already struggling to stand by the time Paul approaches him. There is murder in the other ghoul’s eyes as he looks up at him, but there are still the clouds. He is still not entirely right, and he knows it, and Paul watches Hancock war with his own lamed mental faculties.

This is the ghoul she has chosen, he thinks, putting his foot on Hancock’s face and pushing him down into the dirt. The heel of his dress shoe digs against his cheek. _This_ is who. If she had been with a human, not with someone as broken, as damaged, as disgusting as he, then perhaps he wouldn’t have been so upset. Perhaps then she wouldn’t have lingered in his thoughts from sunrise to sunset, a phantom of his past and so untouchable yet so within reach.

He presses harder. Hancock protests in pain, trying to snake free of his grasp.

 _He_ had known her before the bombs. _He_ knows what life was like then. _He_ had known her before all else. He knows he is a monster, he knows he will still outlive her for hundreds of years.

But she didn’t care. She is with Hancock, a ghoul as he is, and so she does not care.

Excitement and yearning surge through his limbs, vigor reborn, and a heaviness settles once again over his mind. She will be his soon enough. He will touch her soon enough. Her skin, her smoothness, the feel of her hair, the feel of _her—_ all will be his.

Hancock manages to free himself from under his shoe and begins to roll away from him. Paul is upon him immediately, gnashing his teeth, some otherworldly growl rising up from his chest. “You won’t stop me,” he seethes, hands around Hancock’s throat. There is fear in Hancock’s eyes, but it is not fear for himself, he knows. Good, Paul thinks. Let him feel fear. Let him know all that was once his will soon be no more. Let him know that _she_ is not for _him._

Hancock jerks his head forward and it smashes into Paul’s. He can feel his brain slosh back and then forward inside his skull, and he reels backwards, howling in pain before remembering that this takes silence. This must be discrete. He will not be stopped.

Hancock is still desperately trying to move away from his attacker and free himself from his binds when Paul is upon him again. “You don’t deserve her!” His voice is a rasp, a gurgle, something that is not ghoul and not human.

When he bends to tear Hancock’s tricorne right off of his head, the severity of his actions begin to dawn on him. He will never be able to return. This place, where she has given him a new life, where he has made the closest things to friends he can name since before he can remember, will be permanently out of reach for him. And Hancock will hunt him down. Hancock will put him down like the dog that he is.

But not her.

He hefts Hancock’s body onto the edge of the wall, purposefully not looking into his fellow ghouls’ face. He is still struggling, still shouting behind the barrier of tape, but Paul may as well be blind and deaf. The mechanical churning of the purifier and sound of water on rock is drowning out all else, now. It is almost too loud for him.

She will not hate him. She cannot. She will understand—she will _know_ that they must be together. That she belongs to him, as he belongs to her, as they both belong to a world before the bombs.

He pushes Hancock over the edge and into the water below.

This is how ghouls go feral.

There is not much time now. He hastens back to his stashed duffel bag and replaces the items, the tape and the rope but not the knife. He removes his hat and places it inside the bag, still holding Hancock’s tricorne clutched tightly in his left hand. He pulls a smaller bag out of the duffel bag, a satchel filled with fresh water and some foodstuffs, and puts it under his arm. He will need to escape after this, he knows. He will need to run far. But it will be worth it in the end.

He knows where her house is, down by the bridge. He has been inside of it and around it so many times that walking there is second nature by now. The street of the cul-de-sac is dark, and her house is dark, but he still moves quickly. At her door, he sets down his satchel, dons Hancock’s tricorne, and steps inside.

It is as dark, if not darker, than outside. He does not stop to admire her decorations, as he would normally do, but heads instead straight for the stairs. He ascends them quietly, so as not to wake her, and enters her bedroom at the top.

In the dark, with her human vision, he is just a ghoul in a long coat and three-point hat.

In the dark, he is Hancock.

He thinks back to when she had undressed for him, pulling off her leathers and then slipping out of her vault suit. Adrenaline is making him on edge, and he feels a quiver run over his limbs. He is finally here. It is finally time.

He sees her form in her bed, sprawled out beneath a thin blanket. She’s as beautiful at night as she is in the daytime. He can almost feel how soft she is now. His hands ache. He takes a few measured, careful steps toward her.

The floorboards groan beneath him. She stirs. He does not stop.

Her head raises and she regards him groggily. He can see how her hair has been tangled in her sleep, draped halfway across her face. He can see her bare shoulders, jutting up from under the blankets, can see her lips curve into a smile as she recognizes him. She lies back down and makes a contented noise.

“’S about time,” she says, voice heavy with sleep.

Yes, he agrees. It _is_ about time.

He puts a knee on the bed, hovering over her. Her eyes are closed now, but she is still smiling. He thinks he might cry. He thinks his heart might explode. He thinks he might cease to exist.

She reaches a hand up to touch his chest. He grabs it quickly before she can feel his coat, feel his tie, feel the difference in material, feel that he is not who he pretends to be. Her skin is just as soft as he has always imagined. He runs his withered fingers over her knuckles, over the back of her hand, savoring the texture. Her hand shifts until her fingers thread through his, each thin digit rubbing against the roughness of his own, and he groans quietly, softly.

She laughs, but it is barely a whisper. She reaches up to remove his hat but he leans in instead, burying his face in her neck. She smells divine, like leather and gunpowder and, faintly, soap. When she laughs again, he can feel it in her throat. “You’re affectionate tonight,” she notes, her hand moving to the back of his neck, tracing the skin there. He holds back a shudder. “What happened?”

He grunts in response. It is just gravelly enough, just low enough, that she suspects no foul play.

He places a hand on her stomach. She takes in a breath but does not protest. He moves it up, under her thin shirt, up over her breasts, feeling a hard nipple that he squeezes between his fingertips. He is panting as he touches her, his mind swimming, circling the dark drain of sanity. He has to keep it together. Hancock is not so desperate, he thinks; Hancock is not so yearning as he.

No one deserves her like he does.

She removes her underwear from beneath him, sliding out of them and pulling her legs up to either side of him. He is still clothed, and she voices her disappointment at this until he draws away to shrug out of his trenchcoat and throw the tricorne onto the ground. He doesn’t take off his shirt or pants. His tie is still firmly clamped to his buttons. He is hard, incredibly, painfully hard, and he presses his body against hers.

“Wow,” she says on a breath. “You’re…are you high?” The voice is not accusing or angry.

He shakes his head, groans, feels the smoothness of her stomach and slips lower. He feels the curl of hair down there and soft lips, and as his middle finger slides inside of her, he realizes she’s just as soft inside as she is out.

He thrusts clothed hips into her and she exhales hot on his ear.

He pulls himself from her warmth, her wetness, her smoothness, only to unzip his pants and free his erection. She takes it into her hand immediately, stroking it, fingers running up its length and then covering the tip, playing with his precum. He could cum from just this, he realizes, so he shoves her hand aside on a growl of frustration and positions himself as best he can. He rubs the tip against her lips, gathering her slickness, trying to control his breathing, and looks down at her. Her eyes are still closed, and she is so trusting, so beautiful, so willing, that he can almost imagine he isn’t pretending to be her lover. He can imagine she has chosen _him,_ not Hancock—that it is _him_ she moans for, begs for—it is _him_ who she loves.

He pushes inside of her on a long, breathless groan. She tightens around him and makes some pleading noise, some mewl, that makes his hands clench into fists in the mattress.

She _is_ his.

He thrusts hard, causing her to gasp and call out a name that isn’t his.

She loves him, as it should be.

His pace picks up, driving into her, knowing this will be the only time he can have her. This is the only time that she is his. This is the only time she will love him.

She will understand, he tells himself, as his orgasm creeps up. She will forgive, he thinks, frantic, the knot of desire in his gut tightening. She will know that this was meant to be.

She is moving her hips against him now, rolling and trying to keep up with him. He is grinding his teeth, his mind going blank, his nails digging into his palms.

She is his, always, forever.

He finishes silently, his jaw clenched too hard from struggling against his thoughts to let any noise escape. She coaxes it out of him, squeezing around his cock and letting him fill her, letting their bodies mix until he’s not sure he was ever his own person in the first place. He presses his forehead against hers, still sore from Hancock’s assault, and breathes hard, allowing himself to come down from the high of plans realized, of goals achieved, of his life coming into place.

She will _always_ be his.

Her hands are rubbing soothing circles down his back. She has not noticed a difference in the fabric yet.

He does not want to pull away from her, but he knows he must. He needs to leave, quickly, if he hopes to survive.

She will not hurt him, he thinks, but the thought is weak and he is not sure if he believes it.

“Hancock,” she says, and there is so much love in her voice that it makes him see spots in his vision. He clutches a hand to his head, hissing in pain.

He draws away from her, leaving his heart and his happiness still nestled in her arms. He stands, tucks himself away, pulls on his trenchcoat, and kicks Hancock’s tricorne under the bed.

“Hancock?” she says, sitting up. The name is a question, worried.

The black spots come back, more insistent. He can feel a heaviness, a heat, scraping searing talons across his brain and down his spine. He resists the urge to sink to his knees and scream into his hands.

“No,” he says, and when he sees her eyes widen in recognition, he flees.

The details of her house, of the street outside her house, blur past him as he runs. He doesn’t even stop to pick up his satchel of supplies. He 10MM is heavy in his pocket, slapping against his hip, begging him to slow down. His head turns fitfully, mind somersaulting in and out of lucidity. Everything is hot, everything is too constricting, and the fabric of his three-piece suit is suddenly itchy and uncomfortable.

He stumbles over a tree root just outside of Sanctuary and tears off his trenchcoat, knife and gun in the pockets all but forgotten. He rips his tie from his neck, snarling as it tangles, finally freeing himself.

She loves him, he knows. She loves his pockmarked, shrunken skin. She loves his tired, rasping voice. She loved him then and she loves him now.

He struggles to his feet, swaying. Where is she? Why did he leave? Why would he ever do that?

He turns toward Sanctuary. His vision is shaking rapidly back and forth, making everything look jagged and sharp. He can see the bridge just up ahead. He can see a light on in her house. He can hear the water purifier in the distance and the creek not so far away.

He hears her voice, calling for him, asking where he’s gone, begging him to return. He hears his mother’s voice, asking him about school. He hears his sister calling him to play. He hears his father saying goodbye. He hears his own blood rushing in his ears.

He hears the distinct sound of a shotgun being cocked.

He doesn’t turn around. He knows who it is.

“We belong together,” he grates out. He holds his head in his hands and doubles over. His limbs are not in his control anymore. He stumbles forwards. “I knew her before anyone,” he pleads, voice choked. “I knew her when I was smooth.”

More footsteps approach.

“Nora,” the voice behind him says, relief clear in his tone.

He turns, sees Hancock, holding a shotgun and bereft his hat, dripping wet. Approaching rapidly is indeed Nora, _her,_ holding a heavily modified .45 with its sights aimed at him.

He drops to his knees. His head pounds. His joints ache. Something is gurgling up his chest and scratching its way out his throat.

 _“You?”_ she says as she gets near, too near, not near enough. He shuts his eyes tight and isn’t sure if he’ll ever open them again. “The Vault-Tec…?” Her sentence trails off and he bends further until his forehead is touching the cool dirt.

He hears hard footsteps and then feels the long barrel of a gun shoved roughly into the back of his head. He is convulsing now. He can’t stop the tremors. He thinks he might swallow his own tongue.

“No,” Nora says, and the gun is removed after a moment.

“What happened?” Hancock asks. His voice is even, calm. Wound tight, ready to snap. And very close.

She is quiet.

His world is crumbling at the edges. He sees bright lights and fire behind his eyelids, red-hot searing into the landscape and into his skin. It is all moving, spinning, far too fast, and he feels bile rise up in his throat.

“I trusted you,” she says, and she is talking to _him,_ not Hancock.

His roiling thoughts, his shaking limbs, his seizing body, all stop for just a moment. She forgives him. She loves him. She’s _always_ loved him. He raises his head to look at her, hands held out, palms-up, in benediction.

There are tears in her eyes, but they have not fallen. Her gun is still aimed steadily at him.

His hands close and then drop into the dirt for purchase. His teeth grind. His eyes burn. His head rolls back and forth and his breath comes out in wheezes and snarls. His mind is hollow, his thoughts singular. His fear, his guilt, his pain, his love, all slip into the depths as something insistent and raging claws to the surface.

She cocks her own gun.

This is how ghouls go feral.


End file.
